


Dreaming of a White Christmas

by rocknrolljunkie989



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknrolljunkie989/pseuds/rocknrolljunkie989
Summary: "Is Switzerland, Jackie.  I thought there would be snow.  It's not Christmas without snow."





	Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePagemistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePagemistress/gifts).



It doesn't snow until the midnight shades of Christmas eve begins to fade into Christmas day.

François had been anxious. Their first Christmas together, just the two of them, and François had paced the halls since the twentieth of December, peeking out the windows with a frown.

"What're you looking for, lad?" Jackie would ask, his own frown twisting his features. They were tucked away in his home in Switzerland, secure. Never a problem to date, even when he disappeared for months at a time.

And for the first day or two, François wouldn't answer. He would just tuck the curtain back in place, turning his frown into a kiss for the top of Jackie's head. "Is nothing."

Then, after a few days: "Snow."

" _Snow?_ "

François had looked sheepish, a child who had just learned how gullible he could be. A vague gesture at the window. "Is Switzerland, Jackie. I thought there would be snow. It's not Christmas without snow."

"And how often is there snow in Paris on Christmas, eh?" It's a teasing question, but François still blushes, makes a big show of putting the curtain back in place, mumbling something about snow and mountains and things being different.

(If Jackie was honest with himself, he was a little concerned about the lack of snow, too. It had come down in thick blankets all throughout November, but they'd had a few warm days in December that melted it away. After that, it was nothing but blue skies and temperatures hovering just above freezing. But if it also meant they didn't have to worry about clearing out the driveway, well - Jackie certainly wasn't about to complain.)

On the morning of Christmas eve, there had been clouds. François always sleeps late, but he curled up under the blankets longer than usual without the sunshine to roust him. Jackie finally had to be the one to poke him, grumpily, awake.

"The sun is not even up yet, Jackie," he grumbled into the pillow, trying to tug the blanket back up over his head. Then, his left hand fumbled awkwardly out from the edge of the cocoon, finding the hem of Jackie's jumper. He gave a few halfhearted tugs. "You. Back in bed."

"It's almost noon, François."

The blanket thrown back. François sitting bolt upright. Shirtless, bedhead making wild curls stick up in hundreds of different directions, eyes wide open. "Noon," he repeated under his breath. And then he hopped out of bed, arms around himself for warmth, to peek out the curtain. From the sliver of sky he could make out from the bed, Jackie could see thick gray clouds piling up. Almost drooping under their own weight.

Joy, pure unadulterated joy, spread across François's face as he turned around. "Jackie. What is the weather forecast?"

"Not sure, lad. I've not checked," he chuckled. "Get some clothes on. We've a meal to start cooking, if you've not forgotten."

All day - as they prepped the food, as they ate, as they cleaned up, as they shared wine in front of the fireplace - François's eyes kept flicking back to the sky. When they both rose to retire to the bedroom, the Frenchman stood with the tiniest of huffs. And Jackie frowned.

"I'm sorry I can't make it snow for you, lad. You know I would if I could."

Another huff, but this time, François pulled Jackie in for a long hug, arms wrapped loosely around the Scot's shoulders, one hand balancing both of their wine glasses. "You do not need to. You already give me the world."

Jackie is fairly certain that was the moment - well, one of the many - where his heart melted. He couldn't do much else than clutch François that much tighter, to mumble something indistinct about how he could do so much more, then instruct François to drop the wine glasses in the sink and come to bed; he'd have it nice and warm for the Frenchman. And to stop worrying so much about the weather. 

At Jackie's side, the Scot's arm wrapped around his waist, François falls asleep quickly and easily with a long, despondent sigh. Had he known how much the snow meant to François, he might have kept an eye on the forecast, whisked them away to a snow-drenched mountain resort for the holidays.

__ 

Jackie wakes in the middle of the night, somewhere around that time when he'd sneak out of bed for "water", but really to see if Santa had come. He's a light sleeper, but as he lays in bed, he can't quite seem to figure out what it is that's woken him. In fact, it's…

Dead silent.

All day, there had been a wind. Nothing excessive, not the windowpane-rattling gales of Scotland. Just a breeze. And now, nothing.

Carefully, Jackie slips his arm out from around François's waist (not that he needs to be particularly careful; the Frenchman could sleep through a hurricane) and crawls out of the bed onto the cold wood floor. It feels a long journey through an arctic tundra after latching onto François's body heat, but when he gets to the window and peels back the heavy curtain, it's there. Snow.

It's the beautiful kind of snow. Picturesque, movie-set, postcard perfect. Big, heavy flakes falling lazily, happily, untouched through the sky. They're already sticking to bare tree branches, the grass nearly invisible. Not a sound anywhere. Entirely undisturbed.

In a flash, he's at the edge of François's side of the bed, sitting down and reaching out to shake the man's shoulder.

"François."

"Mmmphg."

"François, get up."

"Uggghn."

"François, _it's snowing_."

And those are the magic words. François perks up almost immediately, pushing blankets and pillows away from his face. His blue eyes are bewildered, and he rubs them with the heel of his hand in an almost comical expression of 'is this really happening?'. 

"What?" he asks. His voice - his tongue - still heavy with dreams.

"It's snowing. Jackie nods at the window. "Thought you'd want to have a look."

François leaving bed is always a half-hour process at the very least, but suddenly, he's scrambling out of the covers, tapping Jackie out of the way, leaping out of bed and bounding to the window. He pushes the curtains wide open, then leans forward, so close to the glass that Jackie waits for him to press his nose against it.

If only Jackie had thought to bring a camera along to capture François's enraptured expression. There's a brilliant smile on his face a mile wide, his eyes wide and trained up at the sky, then at the trees, then at the front hedges. His breathy, "wow" fogs up the window so that he has to unwrap an arm from around his bare shoulders to wipe it away. And just like that, Jackie has forgotten all about the snow, focusing more on François's reaction to it.

"Right, lad," Jackie begins, softly, so as to not disturb the peace. "What do you say we grab some blankets and sit out by the landing?"

François's eyes light up even more as he turns to look at Jackie. "Yes! Please!"

"Some hot chocolate, maybe?"

It looks like the Frenchman can barely contain his joy.

__

They wake on Christmas morning tangled together in blankets on a just-too-small loveseat they dragged out in front of the biggest window on the second floor. Empty mugs of hot chocolate have tumbled to the floor, or are tucked away in the folds of a quilt. Jackie has no idea when they fell asleep, but he knew it must have taken hours - the two of them silent, enjoying one another's company, enjoying the gentle flakes drifting from the sky.

As he watches the Frenchman curled up and dozing next to him, Jackie sends out a silent prayer to the clouds that brought the snow. Stiff as he is from sleeping on the couch, there's no other way he'd prefer spending Christmas morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not understand climatic characteristics of switzerland please let me live


End file.
